


There's Only 'We'

by kw20742



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Canon Lesbian Relationship, Explicit Language, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 11:37:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15314667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kw20742/pseuds/kw20742
Summary: Scene continuation from episode 3.7, within minutes of Maggie quitting her job.





	There's Only 'We'

**Author's Note:**

> I have adopted the lovely “Moments in Time” by spilled_notes as part of my own headcanon, and that is reflected here.

Maggie was fine as long as she kept walking—marching, really—as far away as possible from Caroline. She felt the younger woman’s contemptuous glare burning into the back of her skull as she stomped down the hill. It wasn’t even contempt; it was condescension. Caroline, easily thirty years Maggie’s junior, considered her irrelevant, some kind of doddering old fool, and that just served to intensify Maggie’s ire. She wanted nothing more than to be rid of Caroline, and all her toxic rubbish, once and for all.

So rather than head straight down to the harbour as she had intended before being ambushed (leaving her own backyard, for goodness sake!), she had turned a sharp left onto West Cliff Road and has somehow found herself here, on the path atop the flood defence on the way to the boat graveyard. Where old vessels go to die. The irony is not lost on her.

She’d been on her way to the office to finish up a couple of things before heading over to the King’s Arms to meet Yvonne and some others for drinks. Then they were all going to join the candlelight vigil together, a cadre of women standing in solidarity against sexual violence. Maggie, feminist of old that she is, would eagerly have attended such an event in any case, but she had been planning also to cover it officially. Now, though, having torpedoed her career…

“Oh, shit,” Maggie scolds herself, officially crossing the emotional threshold into full-blown panic. “Shit, shit, shit!” Maggie punctuates the last syllable by swinging her bag hard at the back of the nearest bench, and flops down hard onto it.

Giving Caroline a good and proper bollocking had seemed the right thing to do in the moment. She more than deserved it, and Maggie doesn’t regret it. Nor does she regret quitting her job. Not really. She didn’t want to commute to Bournemouth anyway. But the dire consequences of those decisions, long contemplated but spontaneously acted upon, are beginning to sink in. She’s now unemployed with no backup plan, limited options, and outmoded skills. Crucial skills. Foundational, even. (She’ll argue that to the death.) But outmoded nonetheless in this digital age fueled not by an ethical, honorable search for truth and justice, but by arrogance and corporate greed. And on top of that, she’s likely lost her pension. It’s been awhile since she read the HR policies, but companies don’t typically give out pensions to people who walk off their jobs in a fiery rage. Which is precisely what she had just done.

Shaking with the rush of leftover adrenaline, she silently berates herself: For once in her life, why couldn’t she have just kept her mouth shut? She would’ve figured out a way to put Caroline off for a few days, during which time she could’ve resigned properly. And kept her banked vacation time. Not to mention her pension. Fuck!

Without really thinking it through, she texts Jocelyn: “I think I just made a horrible mistake. It’s not an emergency, but ring me as soon as you’re able to chat for a few minutes.”

It reads calmer than she feels, but she doesn’t want to alarm her. After all, it’s not like they’re twenty anymore. Hell, it’s not even like they’re sixty anymore! She doesn't want Jocelyn to think she fell down the stairs and is now lying in hospital somewhere.

As soon as she hits send, though, Maggie regrets it. Even after three years, they’re still negotiating how best to communicate when Jocelyn travels for a trial, especially because Jocelyn herself is still working through how to be both her clients’ barrister and Maggie’s partner at the same time. They’ve managed to nail down a phone call at nine o’clock each evening. Even if one or both of them is still working, they make time just to check in.

And Maggie has been surprised by how much she looks forward to their nightly chats. They remind her so much of those first glorious months she spent nestling into Broadchurch, getting to know its streets, its breathtaking landscape, its rhythms, its people. One person, in particular. That autumn in which phone calls quickly overtook letter writing as their primary means of communication, and the very sound of Jocelyn’s voice would leave Maggie wet and wanting for days afterward. That autumn, when she gradually, almost without realizing it, fell absolutely, completely, and undeniably in love with Jocelyn Knight.

Their nightly phone calls now are much like those had been: quite ordinary conversations about their respective days, usually accompanied by vigorous debates (others might reasonably call them arguments) about current events, politics, literature, theatre, the best places to stay in the Lake District, and whatever else they might happen upon. Then, as now, Maggie finds those chats reassuring, comforting, intellectually engaging. And since they each now relish the freedom of flirting openly with the other after so many years of restraint, the calls are often deliberately charged with emotional and sexual tension. This makes Jocelyn’s eventual homecomings all that more exhilarating.

But they haven’t really figured out this texting thing. Maggie was used to texting a bit for work, especially since Danny, but Jocelyn hardly ever notices she’s received a text until hours later. Maggie has mocked Jocelyn’s technological ineptitude in this regard, and she’s almost certain that Jocelyn won’t remember to check her phone until she gets back to the flat after court.

Thus resigned to having to wait until nine o’clock to confess the day’s sins, Maggie slips her phone into her jacket pocket and leans back into the bench, letting the late afternoon sun warm her upturned face. She inhales deeply and exhales slowly, trying for some equanimity before having to face the world again.

Jocelyn’s own phone, roughly three hours away as the crow flies, belches a terse ‘ding,” and reveals Maggie’s message: “I think I just made a horrible mistake. It’s not an emergency, but ring me as soon as you’re able to chat for a few minutes.” Knowing Maggie Radcliffe to be neither histrionic nor an alarmist, Jocelyn glances quickly at the clock above the desk in the robing room at the Old Bailey, swipes into her favourite contacts, and rings the first number on the list.

Maggie starts when her phone rings, vibrating against her thigh. “Well, hello, there! Wonders will never cease!”

“We’re on recess. Just in time, too. I had far too much tea at lunch.” Jocelyn snickers to herself.

In spite of her own anxiety, Maggie teases, “I can’t believe you remembered to turn your phone back on.”

“Honestly, I’m astonished myself,” Jocelyn admits, “but I’m so pleased I did if it means I get to hear your voice.” She looks again at the clock. “Likely to be called back any minute, though. So, tell me quickly: what’s this ‘horrible mistake’ you think you’ve made?”

“Thanks for calling.” Maggie understands that this can’t be a long chat, but she appreciates this call as part of Jocelyn’s ongoing efforts to break her habit of emotional compartmentalization. There was a time, not too very long ago, that Jocelyn would not, _could_ not, have made time for her during the course of an entire trial, let alone in the middle of a workday. “I’m sorry to bother you…”

“It’s no bother, Maggie. I need to get better about this. I will. For the moment, though…” Jocelyn glances back up at the clock.

“Right,” Maggie sighs, “here’s the short version: Caroline threatened to sack me if I didn’t run a story about Mark Latimer attempting suicide. So I quit. Spectacularly.”

“Oh, I bet!” Jocelyn guffaws, well aware of the bollocking Maggie can mete out when she’s got a full head of steam. Jocelyn’s been on the receiving end of a few of them herself over the years. “I look forward to hearing all the details later. For now, though, I haven’t heard anything horrible, or even a mistake.”

“Jocelyn!” Maggie cries in exasperation, “I did exactly what they’ve wanted me to do! I played right into their grasping, greedy corporate little ‘ands! I busted my ass for ‘em for thirty years, and I ‘ad a great fookin’ pension. ‘N I just pissed it all away by letting my tempa gert t’betta of me.”

Jocelyn smiles: You can take the girl out of Yorkshire, but don’t even try to take the Yorkshire out of the girl. Especially when she’s mad as hell. Still, there can be no arguing with the facts as Maggie has presented them. But her unfailingly ethical approach to her work is just one of the many reasons why Jocelyn fell in love with her all those years ago.

“It sounds to me like she left you no choice, Maggie,” says Jocelyn. “You did what you needed to do, what _had_ to be done to protect the Latimers’ privacy. And I’m so proud of you.” She catches herself. “I’m sorry. That sounds patronizing, and I don’t mean to be.”

“No, I know you don’t,” Maggie assures her. Truth be told, she’s delighted. Jocelyn Knight suffers no fools, and she’s tough as nails to impress, so to be on the receiving end of her approval always means the world to Maggie.

For Jocelyn’s part, she wishes that she, too, could have the chance to give that twit Caroline a good bollocking of her own. She’d have a thing or two to say about all the unpaid overtime Maggie’s been doing since they refused to replace Olly, about the lack of respect paid in these past few years to a consummate professional who’d given the best part of her career to that bloody organization, and about how Maggie is a superb journalist who doesn’t deserve to be pushed out of the work she loves by covetous corporate types who wouldn’t know news if it bit them hard on the backside.

But since she’s not likely ever to meet Caroline, let alone have the opportunity to really lay into her, Jocelyn says, quite simply, “She had it coming, and Beth and Mark deserve to be left to heal in peace—or not, as the case may be.”

Jocelyn still feels as if she let the Latimers down, even though she really did do the best she could for them. And, as Maggie has reminded her many times since then, her best is pretty damn near perfect, so there isn’t much more that could’ve been done. If only she’d had the confession, things would likely have turned out much differently. Still, it’s water under the bridge. For her, at least. For them, the nightmare obviously continues. “You did the right thing.”

"Yes, well, good fa me,” Maggie replies with biting sarcasm, “cooz now ahm well and truly fooked. Being a journalist is the only thing ah know ‘ow to do!”

“I’d be more than happy to enumerate a few of your additional skills,” Jocelyn teases, letting her voice trail off without finishing the thought.

“Oh, stop. I’m being serious.” But Maggie loves this sexual, playful side of Jocelyn.

“So am I,” Jocelyn responds provocatively.

Despite the distracting little flutter in her belly, Maggie sticks ferociously to the thread, calmer now. “My state pension won’t be much, Jocelyn. I have some savings, and some money from selling the house, but…”

“There’s plenty of money, Maggie,” Jocelyn replies pragmatically. “We’re incredibly fortunate. We won’t need your pension.”

Maggie snorts. “You may not, but I sure do.”

“Look, as far as I’m concerned, there’s only ‘we’ in a conversation like this. Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to get me to understand these last few years? That’s what it means to be together, to love each other. Yes?”

Maggie sighs audibly, twisting the narrow band of white gold on her left hand. She really hates it when Jocelyn throws her own arguments back at her. “I don’t want your money, Jocelyn.”

“It’s _our_ money, Maggie.” Maggie is silent, so Jocelyn pushes a little harder. “Remember,” she chides, “that’s part of why we decided to get married in the first place, the easiest way to take care of all those legal details?” Still silence, but Jocelyn knows she’s made a little chink in the armour. “I can tell you’re scowling,” Jocelyn teases affectionately.

“I am,” Maggie confirms.

Knowing that she won’t be able to allay Maggie’s concerns over the phone, particularly right now when she’s at her most pigheaded and panicky, Jocelyn says, “Let’s save this for when I’m home next week-end, alright?”

Reluctantly, almost sulkily, Maggie replies, “Yes.”

Jocelyn repeats: “I really am so proud of you. And very lucky to have you in my life.”

“Thanks. That means a lot. Truly, it does.”

“And I promise: Everything will be fine.” Jocelyn spots her junior, Emma, signaling to her from the doorway. “Ah! Look, Maggie, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go. We’re being called back in.”

“Right. Go. Be brilliant.”

“Always,” Jocelyn retorts, only half a jest. And then she gets an idea: “Listen, since you’ve suddenly found yourself on an unplanned vacation, why not come up to London for a few days? I miss you.”

“Ooh, I’d like that!” Maggie thinks aloud, “I’ve got the vigil this evening. Will tomorrow be too soon?”

“Are you here yet?”

Maggie grins, and that little flutter in her belly is back again. She’ll never tire of being so overtly adored and wanted by Jocelyn, who’s remained thoroughly devoted to making up for mistakes made and time lost while she was busy being so afraid. “Right! I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Yes you will.” Jocelyn’s voice turns seductive. “As much as you’d like, for as long as you’d like.”

“Mmmnnn,” Maggie exhales audibly, this time allowing the little flutter in her abdomen to turn urgent.

Jocelyn chuckles deep in the back of throat, confident that she has succeeded in taking Maggie’s mind off her troubles for even a little while, and whispers, “I love you.”

With that, she is gone.

Leaning back into the bench with what she can only guess is a ridiculously soppy smile plastered all over her face, Maggie checks the time and then returns her phone to her jacket. Tomorrow she will thank Jocelyn properly for, well, just being Jocelyn. For tonight, though, there are friends to be met and the resiliency of women to celebrate. Maybe she’ll even return to her freelance roots and report on the vigil independently, like she did at Greenham. She could record it using her phone and post the video and her coverage online. Video blogging. “Vlogging,” Olly had called it.


End file.
